The Seasons PAss

A chill knock, at the door,
the cold the cold, nothing more.
A beast of death unto the night,
Flowers shrivel with tears of fright.

When will it pass, I ask you so,
'Til once again the flowers grow.
Rising up like the majestic sun.
The squirrels will laugh, and play and run.

Hear it whistle, soaring by.
Leaves fall gently with a sigh.
Later they'll bloom, in the sunlight,
The green shining vibrant, oh so bright.

But for now I ponder in this room,
waiting for the flowers’ bloom.
And waiting here I gave myself,
nothing more and nothing else.





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